


The Paths to Heaven and Hell

by Kat2107



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Constance being badass, Genderbending, Other, Parental Death, fem!d'Artagnan, graphic reference to death by hanging, reference to sexual assault (no main character)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A young lady shouldn't..." Charlotte stared down the barrel of her pistol into the frightened man's face. </p><p>She only wanted justice for her father.<br/>Really, this only needed to work until the man was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A long road to wander alone

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin, I want to apologize profusely.  
> I seem to be unable to tackle format editing on AO3.  
> We will have to make do with whatever readability I managed to squeeze out of this one, ok?

It was raining on the day her life irrevocably changed.

It was raining, the cold water mixing with the salt of tears on her cheeks. 

"Papà!" Her voice broke on that one, desperate plea.  

"Named...Athos..." Her father's eyes, dark and rapidly dimming locked on hers.

"PAPAAAAAAAAAA!"

 

***

 

"A young lady shouldn't..." 

Charlotte stared down the barrel of her pistol, willing him to shut his mouth. More for his sake than hers. 

Her hair still curled wetly around her face, something she'd have to take care of later. 

No matter how much she cared for it, so similar to her mothers waist long silken black strands, thick and wavy. The locks needed to go.

With the leather breeches she already wore, the tight undershirt covering her anatomy and the loose shirt she preferred on the road, where being a woman was more a hassle and a danger than anything else, she should be able to get done what needed to be done just fine. 

"My name..." she let her eyes bore into the gaze of the frightened man in front of her, probably the only one able to divulge her secret within the greater vicinity of Paris. 

"Is D'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascogne. Just a young man who visited Paris on business with his father. You understand?" His eyes crossed, narrowing in on the tip of the barrel, then he nodded. 

The deception didn't need to hold for long. Only until she had killed Athos of the King's Musketeers.

 

Growing up on a farm in Gascony did not lend itself to producing a delicate young lady. Having a father who was an expert fighter and had seen more than his share of war and a mother who died young… 

She dimly remembered her father’s friends visiting when she had been a child, them sitting by the fire, laughing, drinking and her curled up on her papà’s lap, listening to their stories, wanting nothing more than to be part of those stories. 

And she still vividly remembered her anger and disappointment when they had laughed at her because she was a girl. 

Her father had never laughed. It had taken him a few weeks, perhaps even months to come around, but when she didn't stop begging, he had relented and started to train her as he would have a son.  

She had been happy. Defending their farm, defending their village and neighbouring farms from wolves and bandits, it had felt so natural. 

Even her father’s headman Luc and his wife Louise, their housekeeper, would expect her to take a more female role now. They had indulged her whims so far, Louise happy with every bit of sewing, mending and cooking and wound tending she was able to teach, but a woman not under a man’s protection…

They would expect her to marry and bow her head under a man’s rule. 

Charlotte scoffed into the dark as she mounted her horse. 

Well, she expected to kill a man first. 

And he _would_ die.

 

***

 

Paris was, they said, the jewel of France. 

D’Artagnan, after a first glance, decided it was first and foremost dirty, oppressive and it smelled. On top of that, it was chock full of criminals. 

Which included her temporary landlady and the stunningly beautiful woman that accompanied the rude Spaniard. 

The first only wanted to rob her of all her money, and really… communal towel, extra charge for clean water. If D’Artagnan wanted clean water, she'd take it from the stream… 

Alright, maybe not. The smell of that water was nothing she'd let even close to her body. 

The latter obviously wanted to kill her. Something was off about her, had been from the beginning. D’Artagnan had gone along when she tried to get close to “him” but bedding her was out of question for obvious reasons. So, cuddling and a fake drunk faint had been it. 

Which had played out well, when the strange woman had left without a backward glance. 

It would have gone better, had d’Artagnan not fallen asleep for real right after, exhausted by grief and tears.

Going to check on the commotion down the hallway of the hotel with a bloody dagger in hand had been one of the worst ideas she had probably ever had. 

Really, Charlotte, REALLY?! 

As the ground rushed closer, because jumping out the window had been another brilliant idea, she regretted everything about the last day. 

But then, sometimes D’Artagnan might be stupid, yet, as her father had always said, the first rule to being a good fighter is to know how to survive. 

And as she crashed and the pain shot through her body, her lungs failing to work for a long, terrifying moment, it was that thought that got her to her feet and moving. 

She still had the money from selling her father’s horse. Her own horse safe in the stables for now. Should anybody try and move that beast then good luck to them.

Paris was disgustingly dirty and it stank… but it was also a labyrinth a woman could vanish in.

 

***

 

She woke to a pair of incredible eyes and the memory of incredibly soft lips warm against hers. 

And the thought of panic. 

And an out of control situation and the knowledge that someone would die today. 

Paris was difficult. And she was wanted for murder. 

The woman next to her must have been tending to her injured side, because the leather vest was open and the look she cast D’Artagnan said she knew and …

“Why?” The woman, with her snow white skin and those cherry red lips, so much more appealing than yesterday’s murdering mad woman, tilted her head and D’Artagnan dropped back on the bed with a desperate groan. 

“Where am I?”  Even under normal circumstances D’Artagnan’s voice was no heavenly choir. It was rough and gravely, courtesy of a bad fall off a horse and a wooden post that stood in her way, probably the only time she had ever seen her father beg for anything. 

God had heard him and spared her life, but she surely would never be known for a gentle singing voice. As her saviour pulled her hand out of D’Artagnan’s grip - she had not even noticed, she had had it in - with a decidedly unpleasant undertone in her words, D’Artagnan marveled at the fact that she could speak at all.

“My husband’s house.” Her fingers balled the wet cloth in her hand in anger. 

D’Artagnan didn't even begin to hope it was for the husband and not for her. 

But nobody screamed bloody murder or tried to arrest or kill her. So that was a huge improvement. 

Warm sun filtered through the curtained windows and out on the street people moved about chattering. For a moment it reminded her of home. She almost expected Louise, to come storming into her room, complaining about the fact she was still in bed and that on a Sunday and the Lord surely wouldn't approve of her laziness. And she would point out the waffles waiting in the kitchen, laughing at the speed with which Charlotte catapulted herself out of bed. 

A cart rumpled noisily over the cobblestone streets below, someone yelled and cussed and metal crashed on stone.

It was then that she remembered that this day was the first in all her life, her father had not seen rise. 

She was in Paris and someone had shot Alexandre D’Artagnan. 

He would never again laugh about her concern for his age. Tell her of his days in the king’s army and all the adventures he had lived through with his friends who had stopped visiting when Charlotte had still been a child. 

She needed to get out of this house and urgently. 

“I can't stay here.” D’Artagnan winced as the muscles in her left pulled taut at the smallest movement. It was not the first time she had broken ribs. It was not even the first time she had fallen from a height like this. It still felt as brutal as all the times before. 

Cursing under her breath she forced herself to sit and reach for her undershirt. The one under the undershirt. The one that kept her bosom, not very big to begin with, hidden.  

“I have an appointment with the musketeer Athos.” 

Threading an arm through the shirt was doable. Trying to thread the second arm through the sleeve and sliding it over her head proved to be nearly impossible. 

“I know him. Is he a friend of yours?” 

D’Artagnan peeked through the neck hole, modesty be damned, her saviour surely had breasts of her own. 

“Not exactly…” 

I'm going to kill him, because he murdered my father and I am lost and in pain and furious and need to do this one thing before I go home and find a way to save my farm without a husband. She of course said none of that, only tried to shimmy with as little movement as possible into the garment. 

“You can barely walk!” Soft hands laid over her own and helped her into the undershirt, fingers curling around the laces without question. “And you shouldn't… not like this.”

D’Artagnan let her breath expand her lungs as far as she dared before fire spread down her side. 

“It's my problem. He surely won't take me serious if I show up in skirts and corset, will he?”

The woman tied the laces and D’Artagnan shoved her breasts into a more comfortable position. 

Their eyes met, lips twitching at the painful absurdity of the situation. 

“Will you please tell me the way to the Musketeer garrison?” D’Artagnan could ask nicely. She hadn't been raised by bears, after all. She could ask her way through Paris, too, if the need arose. But she wanted, she needed this small connection to another human being. Her eyes dropped to the other woman’s lips. She could try kissing her again. 

On the other hand, the words “I'll gut you like a fish” still stood between them. 

Not her best idea. And being kissed by women… most didn't like it. And the preachers liked it even less. D’Artagnan had never had trouble kissing whomever, but she was quick to admit she truly wasn't everybody. Not even close. So, no kissing. No matter how much it might have calmed her fraying nerves.

“You're in no shape to fight. If that's what you're thinking of.” The woman’s words lay heavily, almost accusingly over the room and D’Artagnan found an offending thread loosening from the undershirt, the top undershirt, she had just pulled over her head and started to pull on it. 

In her head Louise yelled at her to stop fraying the stitches and her fingers spasmed with guilt at her saviour’s tone of voice, so she dropped her hands. 

Guilty habit. 

“With respect, Mademoi… Madame, it's none of your business.” D’Artagnan stuffed her feet into her boots, securing a slim dagger in the sheath in the right one. A woman’s weapon, her father had called it. Well, they're dead just the same, she had answered, standing over a bandit’s body. 

“You made it my business, when you fell at my feet.”

D’Artagnan didn't chance a glance over her shoulder. The door - and her weapons belt - seemed unbelievably far away. 

The worst when you had broken ribs was standing up from the bed. 

Anger helped. 

Her father was still dead. He would never again tease her for loving sweets so much. He would never again gently, or angrily, correct her fighting style. He would never again with unhidden pride comment on her love for fighting, for defending her people.

Because Athos had killed him. 

She needed to go, needed to shake off the other woman and she needed to have that man’s blood rush hot and red over her fingers while she watched him bleed out. 

“You are a beautiful woman…” Nonplus her and leave. Easy plan. 

“I'm sure you're used to it.” The last thing D’Artagnan needed was someone poking around her business. 

Or another person in Paris knowing that she wasn't a man. 

The woman folded her fingers into each other, gaze dropping to the bed where Charlotte had lain only minutes prior. The weapons belt suddenly seemed too heavy for her hands, shame a palpable thorn in her mind. 

“I'm sorry, that was uncalled for.” Setting down the belt again she took a slow careful breath. 

“Athos killed my father. Yesterday. And he can't rest in peace as long as his murderer is wandering through Paris, living the good life. I… I can't.”

Her fingers slowly folded around the rapier’s hilt, following the curved lines of the hilt’s cage. Her father’d had that weapon made for her when she had turned fourteen. Had explained to her that while she was a woman, she also was a fighter and it was only right that she had a good sword as well as good dresses. 

“May I inquire the name of my saviour?” Looking up, she found the other woman’s eyes. Her gaze caught at the almost painfully forced smile on her face. 

“Constance. Constance Bonacieux.” 

Picking up the belt again, sorting the pouches, the sheaths of main gauche and sword, turning the hook for the pistol into the right direction, she nodded to Madame Bonacieux and let her face drop into a neutral expression, something she hoped spoke of confidence. 

“My name is D’Artagnan.” Not Charlotte anymore. Only the heir of Alexander D’Artagnan, enforcer of his memory. “Please think kindly of my name.” 

She wanted to remind her not to spill her secret, but really, who could she tell it to before D’Artagnan had found and disposed of her father’s killer. 

On the other hand, riling her up might just help her along into forgetting the woman, dressed as a man, who had passed out - and D’Artagnan refused to call it fainting - at her feet. 

“If you think of me at all.” It was a cruel thing to do, something Alexandre D’Artagnan would not have approved of, a last undeserving stab. D’Artagnan refused to feel the guilt though, through the surge of renewed pain, the thought that she might just as well follow her father into an early grave this day, rang loud and clear.

 

Loose leather pants, under-undershirt, second undershirt, leather doublet, weapons belt.

D’Artagnan, finding her way through the inevitable and very smelly mud, raising her face to the sun to soak up that warmth, was as ready as she could possibly ever be. 

She felt good. She felt angry.

And Paris still stank like France’s outhouse.

 

***

 

There always was a point, before a fight, when you could safely withdraw. 

Just turn around and go. Before you stepped out onto that field. Before they saw you. Put the weapon away and just look like are on your way to the baker. 

Someone once said that D’Artagnan simply lacked this idea of common sense. That second of thinking, that usually reminded you of how much of a bad idea it was to attack, for example, a full blown musketeer. 

She didn’t dispute that in general. 

She was even able to see where that notion came from. 

Usually after a fight. 

She was from Gascony, what exactly did people expect?

 

So, maybe, after she found herself with her back against a post and with a dagger gently vibrating over her head, she potentially could have considered withdrawing. 

She had considered it, even. 

For all of three seconds until the man she had come to kill called her father’s death a “mistake”. 

She hadn’t really expected the dagger, as she threw it, to hit him. 

While standing in a clear line of sight to his friend was not the moment you tried to backstab someone. And it hadn't. 

The look of concern on the other musketeer’s face, the irritation on Athos’ though, had been worth it. 

No one walked away from Alexandre D’Artagnan’s daughter, dismissing her like a nothing. A “mistake”. 

Not when her father wasn't dead long enough to have been included in a first Sunday eulogy. 

She hadn't expected him to be that good. THAT good. And she hadn't expected his friends to step in. She hadn't expected tears rising, as he stood and watched, face - that damn face, though - impassive. 

But very well, she would take on all three, if that only made it stop hurting. 

She did. Not her best fight, but a battle surge only lasted for so long when you had broken ribs and…

In the lonely silence of her bed one night, she might spare a thought along the lines of 

“Thank you god, for Constance Bonacieux and her bravery and courage and the fact that she had no qualms about verbally slapping three Musketeers and an idiot. And for addressing said idiot as male.” 

In hindsight and with the knowledge of survival and how good of a fighter the man was… it had been a stupid idea to go against Athos. 

And then the guards had come to arrest him on charges of robbery and murder. 

She wanted to believe she´d get justice. 

She might have, had he been a tad less earnest, a tad less tired at the accusations.

He looked like a man not even capable of outrage anymore. 

 

***

 

“Are you alright?” Madame Bonacieux’ voice broke through Charlotte’s heavy thoughts, her cool fingers pointedly aggravating the pain in her ribs as she brushed over the bruise on Charlotte’s left. 

Getting the doublet on again after bandaging the ribs was quite the feat and it took the two of them to accomplish it. 

“No. Not really. I'm not used to losing a fight.” It was a stupid reasoning, but the first thing that came to her mind.  

“I thought… I came to kill the man that murdered my father.” holding her breath, while Constance laced up the undershirt again, she followed the flicker of candle light in her auburn hair.  

“It was the only thing that kept me upright in the last days. Revenge.” 

Constance looked up, compassion written across her face as clear as day. Perhaps the only clear thing at that moment. 

“I believed that would make it better, but all I have are more questions. And I can’t rest until I know the truth…”

“That's lucky. Because rest is out of the question” The voice from the entrance had her shoot to her feet and again, it was Constance’s quick thinking that saved her, as the woman stepped into the line of side and tossed her the linen undershirt to hide… well, what made her female was already hidden, but better to avoid weird questions. 

It was the Spaniard, or at least he looked like a Spaniard, who had so skillfully laconically commentated the earlier fight. He was a truly pretty man, more a courtier than a soldier, with soulful dark eyes and a slender body made for flexibility and speed. He had presence and charisma and many a woman surely tried to catch his attention. His big dark bruiser of a friend was only a step behind.

It was natural to reach for the sword. The motions happened before D’Artagnan had even a chance to think, her body still primed for blood and death on her hands. 

This time though, they got through, the anger retreated into a dark, painful ball in her heart, coiled tightly and only waiting to spring forth again. 

If Athos really had been set up, and they clearly believed he had been, then the answers would be found at the one place Charlotte never wanted to see again. Sadly it was the only place they could get an idea about the attacker’s identity, through the one who didn't get away. 

They were not aggressive, they wanted what Charlotte wanted: answers.

They were even polite about it, in a soldier kind of way. And, more importantly, as Constance’s obnoxious husband appeared in the door, all smarmy and curious and condescending, it was him who got the polite phrases and her who got treated as if she deserved any kind of truth. 

D’Artagnan had thought that maybe the resounding defeat and Athos’ arrest had been a sign to drop the charade and just go. 

That that had been before two Musketeers appeared and tasked her to help them find the murderer. 

Forget the pain in her broken ribs.

The hunt was on.

 


	2. Icy Ways of Broken Dreams

It was a wonderful feeling to be back with Buttercup.

The horse snickered and tried to take a bite out of D’Artagnan’s hair first thing.

Before trying to bite her pants as she was mounting.

That horse had more bad habits than a spoiled first born of a rich family. But he was also the most loyal creature in D’Artagnans life.

Which accidentally might be connected to the fact she had reared him by hand.

Which also explained the habits.

He had grown beautifully in the last 3 years, a large horse of darkest black but he was young and headstrong and wild and his ability to follow anyone’s commands but hers was close to nil.

He father had always said she needed to take a firmer hand with him.

A thought that almost brought her to her knees. He would never again berate her for letting the stallion chew on the harness’ leather or how he tried to bite anybody handling him when she wasn’t in sight.

She would never laugh with him about the fact that the horse was still in the inn’s stables when they came to get him because nobody had been able to move him.

The Musketeers watched the dance D’Artagnan and the horse enacted with bemusement and Buttercup gave up trying to catch her boots or pants soon enough before they grew impatient.

As if he understood how much time was of the essence.

 

 

So, the Spaniard was called Aramis and he was friendly enough, easy going, cheerful and French.

Very polite.

And loyal.

He welcomed D’Artagnan with respect, not condescension. As if she was someone who could actually contribute something to their quest instead of a foreign appendix to his tightly knit friendship with the other Musketeer, Porthos.

Porthos on the other hand, for all his impressive and dark appearance, darker than anyone D’Artagnan had seen up to that point, was about as aggressive as the farm’s hound who guarded by jumping on every visitor in an invitation to play and pet and understood the concept of killing about as well as a lamb.

He grumbled, but spoke little at first, until they reached the inn.

They were intelligent men though, and willing to get their hands dirty. They treated D’Artagnan with respect and for a short while, as she listened to them trading theories back and forth, she felt real.

She didn’t feel like an imposter but part of something, of this and it felt, perhaps for the first time, completely right.

It was the way they interacted with each other, so comfortable in each others orbit.

How Aramis body was always angled towards the other in one way or another, eternally cognisant of his presence or the way Porthos hovered right next to Aramis when they dug up the frozen body, how he pushed past him to jump into the grave; and D’Artagnan was just glad that he did it.

Shooting people was one thing, undressing them to find the bullet holes a whole another.

She was on edge as it was, no way talking around it.

Being back here…

When the inn had come into sight they had fanned out on both sides of her without comment, almost as if trying to shield her or offer some resemblance of closeness. Aramis had caught her eye and that beautiful face of his had pulled into a faint smile. A small comfort.

When they had gone around the back of the house instead of through the court yard, the Musketeers hadn't commented on it past sharing a quick glance. D’Artagnan hadn't cared to explain why. She was sure they could figure it out on their own.

They found on the clothing of the man in the grave one bullet hole too many, one that didn't match his injuries. D’Artagnan also found she hadn't even expected him to be a Musketeer anymore.

Maybe it was Athos’ words that had pierced through the rage in her heart, the earnest pain on his expressive face, when he had sworn not to be her father’s killer as they led him away in chains.

Or it was Aramis’ honest desperation or Porthos’ own anger.

This was bigger than her father.

 

***

 

D’Artagnan wasn’t squeamish. Like the two Musketeers she knew what probably awaited them at the end of this trip.

But she was not looking forward to it in the slightest.

Porthos led them with sure sense for direction and superb tactical understanding until the crows led them the last part of the way up the narrow pass off the street and to a burial ground that was none.

Their feet dragging through the disturbed snow, crunching twigs and frozen grass under them, seemed too loud for the scene before them.

It seemed too enormous for D'Artagnan to really grasp it.

Five men dead in the snow. Like discarded dolls.

Like old Durant when he had wandered out into the fields in January.

Stiff and pale, skin a distinctive blue, their expressions frozen as if in peaceful sleep.

For a moment she thought she might get sick. She should perhaps, but there was nothing, only a faint sadness.

Like her father these men had been shot in cold blood.

Unlike her father, they had not even received a burial.

Had the Musketeers not been so adamant to save their friend and find them, animals would have eaten the corpses long before the warmer temperatures had gotten to them in spring.  

"Cornet..."  

Aramis voice echoed between the trees, for a moment even silencing the crows with the pain in his voice.

The sign of the cross came so easy to him, but it did nothing to ease the pain on his face as he knelt between the bodies of slain men, stripped to their underwear and then dragged into the woods and dropped like prey the cat had decided it didn't want to eat after all.

The bullet hole on the chest of one of Cornet's men fit the second hole on the uniform perfectly.

None of them commented on it.

Aramis’ desperate resignation, head bowed over the hat clutched to his chest, lips moving in silent prayer commanded both D'Artagnan's and Porthos’ attention.

Aramis didn't seem to care for the cold, he didn't seem to care for anything for a while, contrary to Porthos who stood at his back, a silent shadow but bristling with suppressed rage. His full lips were drawn into a thin line and his eyes did not leave Aramis’ back until the Musketeer donned his hat again and rose slowly, unsteady like an old man.

D'Artagnan wanted to reach for him, help him up and support him against whatever shadow had caught up with him.

Porthos' head snapped in her direction, for a moment narrowing in on her as if she was the threat and it had D'Artagnan lower her hand very slowly and very carefully.

Whatever pain they shared, it was not her place to intrude.

Not her place to give comfort as they had earlier to her, it seemed.

 

***

 

"Aramis?" Her voice sounded foreign in the stillness of the woods, rough as always, but with a broken quality.

Whatever it was, Aramis heard it too. His eyes flickered as he turned his gaze away from Porthos’ retreating back, wavered from concern at his friend's anger, hunched shoulders and jerky movements to something cautious as he regarded D'Artagnan.

"I'm sorry."

What else was she supposed to say in the face of their dead?

Maybe it was enough, maybe he appreciated the gesture. His nod, the broken smile on his face, before he pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin with a decisive nod, were a silent thanks, a recognition of D'Artagnans effort at least.

Then he turned and walked after Porthos, who already slid down the embankment on the side of the narrow road, face turned up towards Aramis, his voice an angry testament of the storm brewing within him.

"They shot 'em like animals and then stripped 'em of 'er uniforms!"

D'Artagnan passed him by, careful not to touch him. She didn't want to touch anybody right then. Her grief too fresh to deal with theirs. Her senses too raw to really deal with Porthos’ ire.

Aramis though had wrestled back control over himself and came after her.

They had asked for her help and she had given it.

Now they knew. Now she knew.

Shame was a low burning flame in her belly.

Well, she had denounced the Musketeers and had been flat out wrong.

Great.

Their anger hurt. It was not even directed at her, but the knowledge that they had lost just as she only to be accused of being base criminals.....

She wanted to go. Be alone, just for a moment.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis was way too observant not to notice, though.

"The men who did this killed your father as well."

I know, D'Artagnan wanted to throw in his face. I know and I'm sorry. She stayed silent. She wasn't entirely sure she could keep her voice from climbing too high. She wasn't even sure she wouldn't start crying at the raw grief.   

"If you want justice, help us find them and clear Athos' name."

Aramis sounded like he wanted that. For her to stay longer, with them. For her sake, probably, surely not for theirs. Though, as strapped for time as they were they needed every help they could get.

She wanted to go. For a moment there she wished nothing more than to just leave it behind, let them deal with their own mess. After all it had cost her enough.

Buttercup snorted softly, twisting his large head to regard her with one dark eye that was either full of stupidity or compassion, as much as a beast had it within him to feel like this. Buttercup was good at knowing when she hurt usually, so she didn't put it past him.

Reaching out slowly she touched the horse’s muzzle and stroked her thumb over the soft fur.

Aramis didn't just offer. He asked. He asked for help to save a friend who seemed as close to him and Porthos as her father had been to D'Artagnan.

He also offered justice - retribution, her head whispered - so no, declining was not really something she could even consider.

She had had a good part in besmirching the name of their friend and the Musketeers as whole. It was the least she could do.

And, looking deeper, being part of their camaraderie for just a little while longer, enjoying the warmth of their accepting presence, being D'Artagnan and not Charlotte... it was exactly what she wanted to do.

She made her decision even before Porthos found a Spanish Doubloon in the snow, a fitting match to the one he pulled from his pockets.

His face was frozen in a grin void of any humor, not a cover for his anger, but a dangerous adornment.

Two Spanish Doubloons in a week and one won from a red guard, whose rivalry and hatred of the Musketeers was well known.

Her father had had stories to tell about the fights the King's guard and the Cardinal's men fought across Paris.

If someone within France wanted to slander the Musketeers, the obvious choice of suspect was them.

Just like earlier, the answer came as they found themselves at an impasse.

So no, it didn't look like God wanted her to give up yet. She was a good christian girl and would never deny the wishes of their Lord and Saviour.

Not when he was so blantantly obvious about it. 

Amen.

"Are you coming with us?"

Aramis’ face had eased, still with an urgency to it, a faint tiredness that had nothing to do with lack of sleep, but above it, there was hope. Hope to save their friend.

D'Artagnan thought of something to say, something good, something that expressed how much even the question meant to her.

In the end, she just smiled at him and mounted her horse, which of course tried to snap at her boots.

She decided to misinterpret Aramis’ soft laughter as joy about her agreement and not amusement at her expense. Buttercup shook his head trying to bite the reigns instead.

 

 


	3. A slippery slope to salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warning: references to sexual assault and murder, references to attempted unwanted sexual advances and a rather explicit description of an execution by hanging. 
> 
> Tags have been updated accordingly.

“Porthos will get him, don't worry.” Aramis voice contained a faint amusement d’Artagnan just didn't feel.

She didn't know where she was - aside from a barn in a very seedy part of Paris. She had no idea how she would even get away from here if something went wrong. Time was running out under their fingers. The sun was already sitting low enough on the horizon that the narrower streets were cloaked in twilight.

Porthos had sworn he knew where Dujon was and how to get him.

 

D’Artagnan’s feet dug groves into the straw, drawing patterns only to smooth them out and start over. She paced.

She felt Aramis gaze prickling on the back of her neck as he followed her path with his eyes, the patience of a saint etched on his face.

“How?” D’Artagnan snapped at him. “How do you do it?”

Aramis eyebrow rose at the outburst, a self-assured smile ghosting over his lips, so far from her own frantic nervosity.

“I know Porthos. He can take a Red Guard or three unarmed even on his worst days.” His fingers turned his hat in his hands, slowly bringing it around, always in the same direction. “And I just happen to know that one of his favorite pastimes is beating them in a game of cards. He knows exactly where to find him, trust me.” Aramis exuded a calm and a trust that D’Artagnan’s nature, rooted in action and decisiveness as it was, simply did not have.

“What if we’re too late?” Her hand cut through the air in front of her, guilt - and again it was guilt - a heavy thing within her, spurred on by worry and dread.

“We won’t be.” Aramis got up at those words and took a step closer, then another.

“D’Artagnan, hey…” He stopped her pacing with a gentling hand.

“We won’t be. We won’t let him die and the Captain and the others won’t just turn their backs on him either.”

His hand landed warm and sure on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“I bet you, Captain Treville is already gnawing the king’s ear off to stall the execution or going head to head with the Cardinal to buy Athos time.” Then he laughed and carefully shook her smaller frame with good natured teasing.

“For someone who wanted to poke him with your sword earlier you are very eager to get him off the scaffold.” The gentleness took much of the sting out of his words, still, they hit home.

She had been so sure.

And it had been so wrong.

“Yeah... I did my part in getting him up there, didn't I?” Looking up, searching his dark eyes for the accusation that should be there and wasn't, it took effort.

Instead, Aramis smiled.

“Don't worry. You could have turned your back and you didn't. That means much more than your anger.” The grip on her shoulder got stronger. For a moment she worried he'd feel the tight garment of the undershirt. But even if, what could he possibly make of it. He was so close, had come close to her during the day when they had talked and plotted and so far not even the slightest hint of suspicion clouded his features. He expected to see a young Gascon farm boy and he saw one.

“You were grieving, D’Artagnan. And your anger, as short sighted as it might have been, it was justified. And… “ His gaze dropped for a second. “You had nothing to do with the guards who came for him. That came directly from the king and thus Richelieu. Unless of course, there is something we should know about you and your relationship with the court…?”

D’Artagnan reached up and covered Aramis’ hand with her own, already shaking her head. She felt her face tighten with a smile, even more so when Porthos’ deep voice rumbled from the outside with a call to open the door.

“Thank you.”

Aramis stepped back and turned to let his friend in. “What for? You're the one helping us!”

Porthos tumbled in, dragging a lanky figure in leather with greasy hair shadowing his face.

Dujon was unconscious, but already stirring.

“Oh, and, D’Artagnan?”

She looked up, eyeing Aramis, who in turn watched Porthos unceremoniously dumping Dujon in the straw. “Trust us. We're not monsters, but we need this information.”

D’Artagnan closed her eyes and nodded.

In the last three days she had seen more corpses in once place than she had seen her whole life so far and now they were progressing to torture. Worry settled in her stomach. The guilt, though, remained suspiciously absent.

Aramis was right, they needed the information and her flying off the handle would likely only make it more difficult.

May God forgive them all, but she didn't have any forgiveness left for Dujon.

 

Aramis and Porthos were terrifyingly good. Their rapport, the way they moved around each other, how they complemented each other, it was a thing of wonder.

And again, D’Artagnan had to correct her assessment of a man.

Porthos at first glance was all physicality, a bruiser, as dark as he was broad. A man content to stand behind Aramis’ cheerful facade, simple in a way and while perhaps not shallow, not very deep either.

Now though he slotted perfectly into a game of charade to force a man to give up his secrets. Not an underling, following Aramis example, but an equal partner, giving clues, stirring the direction this should take. And Aramis let him, relied on him to provide the perfect counterpoint.

As if they had done this a thousand times already.

Which was a terrifying thought in itself, considering they were just torturing a man. Well, not torture in the sense that was usually implied by that word.

Dujon, aside from a cut above his eye and a broken nose, was physically unharmed.

They were just threatening him.

Politely threatening him.

Giving him all the options.

Until of course, Aramis pulled out his musket and went into a long sermon about shooting the Red Guard and making him bleed out slowly and painfully.

This was the one moment d’Artagnan’s feet began to move on their own account. They just couldn’t… Aramis wouldn’t! Aramis, the man who had taken her under his wing from the moment they had picked her up from Bonacieux’ earlier and never had made her feel inadequate, despite the fact she had attacked Athos.

Not Aramis who had made sure to talk her out of her guilt earlier....

Porthos’ head turned and he stared at her, dark eyes ablaze.

Dujon couldn’t see him from where he stood, but d’Artagnan could and she saw the silent warning.

If Dujon didn’t talk, Athos would be dead. And Athos’ death would hurt them a lot more than this de facto stranger’s. She had no idea what Athos would think about shooting an unarmed, bound man without a trial, but fact was the Red Guard held the information on who had killed her father.

She planted both feet on the ground, with a faint nod to Porthos, standing firm as her eyes seized up Aramis and how he readied the musket with painstaking accuracy.

Raised it.

Aimed.

Let the breath slowly and gently leave his lungs, undisturbed by Dujon’s panicked whimpers.

He pulled the trigger, the hammer clicked, D’Artagnan jumped…

“Bang!” Porthos whispered intimately close to Dujon’s ear.

 

“Oh, I forgot the ball!” Aramis’ fake laughter echoed through the barn and D’Artagnan shivered with a fine tremor that ran through her frame in time with her frantic heartbeat.

Porthos lips twitched gently once, his eyes on her. His was not an unkind expression, but as someone who had been in on it… D’Artagnan wondered what he saw in her obvious discomfort.

“This time.” Aramis let the musket ball fall into the barrel, all easy smile and a showmanship that would have made any market performer proud, and Dujon broke.

 

***

 

The confession was detailed and explicit.

Explicit enough that D’Artagnan had almost choked the man to death.

Once his resolve had broken, Dujon had told them everything about the ambush, stealing the king’s letters, killing her father to blacken Athos’ name.

Such a senseless reason. Just like this, her father shot and bleeding out in the mud because someone had wanted to defame a Musketeer.

She followed the two men and their prisoner silently out of the city to Goudet’s camp.

None of them spoke.

Not even Dujon, after Porthos had threatened bodily harm to shut him up.

 

The twilight of the city cast the winter sky a hazy gray. The snow, thawed during the day, now frozen again, crunched under the horses’ hoofs, like bones breaking.

This morning d’Artagnan had gone and tried to kill a man for the murder of his father.

Now, as the light dimmed and the sun set, she remembered the next time it rose that man was set to be executed.

 

Had they not shot her father… Had she not killed one of them in the barn… Had her father not told her the Musketeer’s name with his dying breathe. Had she not gone after him…

In front of her Aramis turned in the saddle and looked back, his face drawn with worry. She forced her lips into the bad approximation of a smile and he dropped back until he was at her side.

“You look not so good, my friend.” D’Artagnan’s smile grew more honest, if not more real.

“I was thinking of my father and how senseless all of it is.” She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant about it. Experienced enough to deal with pain like this and not breaking apart inside at the thought alone.

“Shot to slander Athos’ name?” She let her head drop back and looked up, searching for the stars between the heavy clouds, finding none.

“I’m sorry. Your father did not deserve this.” The compassion in the man’s voice got to her. The whole day got to her, if she was honest. But there was no rest in sight yet.

People needed to die - and be saved - first.

“Had he not died, I wouldn’t have come after Athos and you would never had heard about the man I shot and known about the ambush.” She turned her head and looked him over. “So… if we can do this, his death will have saved Athos’. That must count for something, right?”

Aramis turned to face her, the hand holding the reigns comfortably resting on his horses’ withers, appraisal in his gaze, approval even.

“He held the Musketeers in high regard.” She continued when he didn’t speak.

“Said, he knew some during his time in the army and if he was in a fight, they were the ones he wanted at his side. I don’t know Athos, aside from the fact that he’s one hell of a sword fighter, but… If he knew that his death saved him, you know? If we save him...“ Her shoulders lifted and then dropped as words failed her.

“Athos is one of the best men, I ever knew. Right up there with Porthos.” Aramis eyes shifted away from her, slid over his friend’s relaxed form, so at home in a saddle, to continue and regard the horizon for a moment.

“He’s honorable. Loyal to a fault. Incidentally also the best blade in Paris and one of the best in France. And a bit moody, but that’s just Athos. Great tactician, too. Losing him… “

Their eyes met and Aramis’ face pulled into a tight expression of something not quite pain for a moment. “I think, the only blow worse for the Musketeers would be losing Captain Treville.” He leaned back at that, sat a bit straighter and his beautiful, beaming smile appeared.

“Also, what are you even saying? Of course we are going to save him. We grab Goudet and in three hours Athos is a free man. That’s with four hours to spare! Enough for a visit to a tavern to celebrate our success.”

D’Artagnan snorted, her hand came up automatically to rub her forehead in a wistful expression, warmth surrounding her aching heart like sunshine. Which was what Aramis was, wasn’t it? The warmth of sunshine.

And Porthos? The earth. Reliable, strong as a rock, built like one, too.

“Of course, we will.”

 

***

 

The ruined castle was too open to sneak up on, too well guarded to just take it and frankly, d’Artagnan didn’t see a way in to take on Goudet.

Neither did Porthos and Aramis.

“We need a distraction.” Porthos tactical mind pulled the information apart that Aramis gave him with pinpoint precision.

Silently d’Artagnan apologized again to the man for thinking him dumb.

Yes, the way he spoke that was right out of the gutter, if he didn’t put his mind to perfect Parisian enunciation.

When he spoke it was gruff or joking, not deep and thoughtful. The thoughts, it seemed, happened in silence within his head. And that was just as well.

She should not have judge him for what he appeared. She had known too much of that in her own life, dismissed as weak and harmless for being a…

“I have an idea that might just work…”

 

***

 

It was, to d’Artagnan’s surprise, Aramis who objected the hardest. But then, maybe it wasn’t surprising at all.

With his natural drive to care and protect towards someone he perceived as weaker and his chivalric character, of course he would object.

“You can’t bring a woman into this d’Artagnan!” He hissed, close enough to d’Artagnan’s face to notice that the Gascon was not even growing the faintest shadow of a beard, had it not been so dark.

“Why not? She seems to care about Athos and she’s brave and quick witted.”

Porthos stood off to the side, silent once more, while Dujon noted the exchange with faint delight, perhaps hoping dissent would give him an opportunity to bolt

“She’s a woman! Those are Red Guards! There will be fighting!”

D’Artagnan wanted to slap him. She just wanted to bust his balls until he understood that the inability to fight was the least and last thing that had ever saved a woman.

It was true, the fact that she could wield a sword had not protected her mother when she had been attacked on the road home from the market.

But had she not been a fighter in her own right they simply would have raped her in addition to a deadly blow to the stomach, after two of the attackers already lay dying.

Maybe, after they had used her, she would still have been alive. May they would have left her there, broken, but still of this earth.

At first d’Artagnan had been angry when she understood what her mother had done.

It had taken years and the Milelr’s son trying to shove his hand down her skirt against her protestations, that she had understood.

And beat him bloody.

Some things men would never be able to grasp.

“Shouldn’t that be her choice?”

“He’s right.” Porthos deep rumble in the background was unobtrusive. Even though he hadn´t spoken up until that point, he had been part of the discussion all the same.

“It’s a good plan.”

“What if she says no?” Aramis turned to his friend, then back at d’Artagnan.

“She won’t.” d’Artagnan was sure of that one thing. She could convince Constance Bonacieux. If she needed any convincing at all. “And we don´t have a better plan. We do not even have a worse one.”

“Very well, young d’Artagnan. The Lord favors the bold.” Aramis, it seemed, when he had come to a decision, was not a man to dwell on it.

D’Artagnan approved.

 

***

“You…WHAT?!” Constance slapped a hand over her mouth to silence her cry, lest anybody knew that she was having visitors that late in the evening.

Her husband was not at home, neither was the maid. Still she worried.

“We need to get in there. The man who killed my father and all the evidence to save Athos are in that camp.” d’Artagnan hesitated to step closer. “Please?”

Constance’s huff held a wealth of annoyance… at d’Artagnan, at the Musketeers, at the world that seemed to have turned against her and her quiet existence.

“Why don’t you do it?” The pretty cherry lips pulled into a smirk that was outright evil and should be banned. D’Artagnan ducked her head, because that was exactly the line of thought she had wanted to avoid.

“If I reveal myself now they will leave me behind and I will never have a chance to kill that man.” She tried with a smile and some flattery, praying she had pinned Constance correctly. “And you are way prettier than I am.”

There went that annoyed huff again. A roll of her eyes before Constance looked down on her hands, fiddling her fingers and d’Artagnan knew she had her.

“Alright, but may God have mercy on you if my husband ever finds out! I need to find a dress and you will help me.”

“I uh….” D’Artagnan eyed the heavy cabinet to her right, fiddling for an excuse that just wasn´t forthcoming.

She was not good with dresses, had simply never truly cared. Though she liked to be pretty now and then as much as the next girl, she had never developed an eye for it and assisting Constance now only made her feel like even more of a fraught than she already was.

Constance stopped in her movement, posture rigid, commanding in her own right, and leveled a death glare at d’Artagnan.

“And. You. Will. Help. Me.” Maybe there was someone out there who could refuse Constance Bonacieux. Well, that person surely wasn´t d’Artagnan.

 

***

 

Constance happened just to be the most courageous, fearsome, clever and beautiful woman, D’Artagnan knew. Including herself.

And that dress was pure evil. All bloodred corset and black trims. It set of the woman’s dark hair and snow pale skin and plumped up her breasts and shaped her hips in a way that had Aramis and d’Artagnan’s breathes hitch in unison.

The poor guard stood no chance

Not with what little brains he had.

But that she truly did this, that she had thrown herself into a dress that did not even qualify for the barest minimum of modesty and stumbled out into the icy cold with her shoulders bare, walking on as she slipped on the snow covered ground and with each step became more secure, more sure of herself, more determined…

Constance must be in fact an angel, sent by God to prevent Athos from dying.

Three, they said, was a holy number.

Three times now they had been given the means to go on when it seemed impossible.

Aramis raised an eyebrow, as she whispered such to him, crouching under the wooden bridge, pistols raised, listening to Constance trying to turn the guards back to their position, then he smiled and nodded and darted out of the trench after Porthos.

D’Artagnan’s heart was a cacophony in her chest.

It was time to take justice.

 

Wait, they said.

We need the right moment, Aramis said.

I killed your father and am here, relaxed and celebrating and drinking wine straight out of the bottle, said Goudet’s smug face and his self-righteous grin.

 

There was always a point before any fight, where you still could safely withdraw. Not attack. Walk away and don’t get involved. Just leave and leave it to someone else. Come back later. Think.

 _But Goudet went mad._ Dujon had said. Shot a man in cold blood to blame it on an innocent Musketeer.

There was nothing mad about Goudet.

Nothing!

The smug bastard knew exactly what he had done and he cared nothing for the great man he had deprived this world of.

He knew nothing of d’Artagnan’s pain. Of the loss for the community on the behalf of which Alexandre d’Artagnan had been traveling.

And worse. He didn’t care. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t care.

Just a farmer.

Expendable.

Forgettable.

“GOUDEEEEEEEET!” d’Artagnan cared. She cared that this man’s blood would saturate the earth and he’d die out here in the frozen ground, his body as stiff and blue as the men’s whose death he had brought.

She heard the commotion behind her and for a second, there was the knowledge how bad of an idea that had just been.

Men fell to her sword.

Then she was on him and thought beyond her.

 

D’Artagnan was an instinct driven fighter. The cool headed tactics some employed did completely elude her.

She knew and she understood where the next move would lead, where the stroke would come from and her reflexes were very, very fast, testament to a weaker upper body strength that had her forever in a disadvantage when locked in too close physical combat or hand to hand, but there was nothing rational about .

When she fought, she did it as she did everything: with her heart.

 

It surprised her to find that Goudet was actually not that good of a fighter. His style was typical for a soldier - physical, abrupt, using the terrain to his advantage, relying on strength more than he did on speed.

Which perhaps gave her a slight advantage as long as she held him at distance.

Until he ran and his longer legs pushed him ahead of her in flight

D’Artagnan charged after him, driven by rage and a healthy amount of disgust.

She rounded the corner, expecting him to wait for her ready to strike from the shadows…

Instead she stared down the barrel of a musket, Goudet nowhere in sight.

If she moved one step closer, she’d be dead. If she tried to retreat around the corner, she’d be dead, too far already to cover the distance back.

If she stayed, she’d be dead. Shot like her father like so much dead meat.

Had she had the pistol on her…

The shot rang out.

But no impact came.

As the Red Guard slowly dropped to his knees, Constance’s porcelain pale figure in her damn blood red dress came into view. D’Artagnan stood shock still, eyes trained on the pistol still raised high by a wildly shaking, pale hand and behind it Constance’s bloodless face with huge, terrified eyes.

D’Artagnan wanted to hug her, hold her until she stopped quaking, comfort her through the shock. Though still Goudet needed to die.

Constance would be fine for now, she might look fragile, but she wasn’t, not by a long shot.

Her faint nod spurred d’Artagnan on, her eyes showed her the right direction.

She caught up with Goudet high on the hill where once the keep had stood, her agility and speed putting her at the advantage on the slippery underground, full of rubble, wet grass and snow.

But he didn’t really seem to want to take her on again.

He ran like a rabbit.

Like a coward. A damn coward that hid behind his men, used them as shields to push on d’Artagnans sword. 1

A man who’d rather run, than stand his ground, who shot a man point blank, instead of giving him the faintest chance to defend himself.

A man not worth existing or being called a soldier.

At the foot of the hill the chase had let them over, d’Artagnan finally advanced in on him. Where he slipped, she drew closer. Driving him, if anything, closer towards Aramis and Porthos.

This was the moment she had pushed towards since her father, the one person in her life she had allowed herself unabashedly and openly love, had taken his last breathe in her arms.

D’Artagnan brought her sword down again and again, pain driving the blows. She didn’t care for finesse anymore. Goudet was tiring already, weak and despicable. What else did he have to put up against her, if he had no men left to fight his fights?

Nothing at all.

She drove him backwards until the Red Guard’s arm was too slow to block yet another furious blow and d’Artagnan’s sword hilt caught his, ripped the weapon from his hand with a quick twist of her shoulder.

Goudet, unbalanced by his unsteady stance and the force of her, fell.

She let herself drop to her knees on top of him, swords crossed against Goudet’s throat, her legs pinning his arms.

A smile, raw and pain filled, pulled her face apart, rage swallowing her whole as she leaned in, staring into the man’s eyes with a silent promise of death.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis voice cut through the haze, voice urgent, with a hint of desperation, as if he hadn´t called out to her for the first time.

Goudet stared up at her, pupils huge and dark, the whites of his eyes brightly contrasted against them. She fancied herself into thinking she could smell his fear. “This is for my father.” D’Artagnan whispered, leaning closer, barely holding back the snarl.

“We need him alive, d’Artagnan.” Aramis again, his voice gentle.

He would understand, d’Artagnan thought. The pain not as acute as hers, maybe, but nonetheless. He would understand if she just followed that urgent need inside to pay blood with blood, if she cut her pain into his body.

She might ignore Aramis, might ignore reason and thought and anything but the blood drenched roar in her ears, if there weren’t one man to whose rescue she had committed herself. Whose life depended on her to just not do it for once.

“A death in battle is too honorable for you!” She snarled, pushing both blades to skin with her body’s weight. There was not enough spite in the world to make those words hurt as much as they should. “I will watch you hang! I want to watch you publicly shit and piss your pants while you struggle for your last breathe and I want everybody in Paris to witness your tongue lolling out, grotesquely swollen in your distorted face and see you displayed like a stinking, human sized cow swaying on the rope!

And then they will go home and dismiss your existence. Sunday’s entertainment. That is what awaits you, Goudet.” Her voice dropped lower with each word, her face drawing closer to his until they were eye to eye and she smiled at the barely constrained panic in his gaze that filled the space between them.

“I’d really, really like that” she whispered as a last jab before pushing herself up and off of him, turning towards Aramis and Porthos.

Relief battered her already battered body, but pride held her up.

Athos would live.

Porthos approving nod had a smile bloom on her face.

Aramis yell made her whirl around.

She saw the shadow closing in in the flickering fire light behind her. She dropped as the blow came, had it go wide over her head.

The Musketeers charged, too far to reach them in time.

D’Artagnan dropped both swords, Goudet too close to use those.

Her fingers grabbed the hilt of her boot dagger with blind surety and it slid out of the sheath without a whisper, drawn a hundred times already.

The movement upwards into Goudet’s heart happened without her expending a thought on it.

Maybe she should have.

It dawned on her, as she staggered back and Goudet dropped dead at her feet.

Too rash, acting without sense as usual.

The Musketeers would have found a way to take him out without killing the only witness to save Athos.

Her eyes found Aramis as he stepped next to her, pleading an apology before he even spoke.

He eyes looked her up and down and she wondered what he saw. An inexperienced idiot who had just cost his friend’s life? A woman who he would deem inept to fight alongside them surely, too emotional, too fragile?

His hand landed warm on her shoulder, face drawn. “There was no helping it.”

D’Artagnan shook her head. She should have…

“Hey!” Porthos call had them both turn. “Found ‘e uniforms!” He bellowed through the ruins in his uniquely soft rolling vowels. His face was split by a huge grin and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but sag a little with relief.

Aramis chuckled next to her and patted her back.

 

***

 

Constance was in a bad shape, almost swallowed up by d’Artagnan’s voluminous cloak, she looked small and close to breaking. Her skin, normally a fine porcelain,

was ghastly white and clammy, as she clung to the saddle in front of the woman who had dragged her into the mess in the first place.

Aramis and Porthos had rushed to the palace, agreeing to meet up in front of the gates while d’Artagnan escorted Constance home.

 _I shot a man_ , had been her words.

 _You saved my life_ , had been d’Artagnan’s reply.

It seemed so insignificant after what she had done.

D’Artagnan helped her off the horse in front of the house, unsure if she could stand on her own just yet.

“Constance…” Huge eyes turned to her, pale fingers, soft and elegant, clutched tightly into the cloaks lapels. “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan tried to find words to turn that one pistol shot into something positive. “The only reason I am here right now, is you.” Her own hands, roughened by hard farm work and handling weapons all her life, closed around Constance’s icy ones.

One corner of Constance’s mouth tried to lift in a halfhearted imitation of a smile.

“You can go home now, d’Artagnan.”

“I…yes… I guess I can…” the smile on d’Artagnan’s own face probably wasn’t much less of a failure.

She didn’t want to go home. This, tonight, the last day…. She had rarely felt more alive, more sure of herself and her place in the world. Which was accidentally not a woman’s place.

“You don’t want to, do you?” Constance’s voice grew soft and one of her hands let go of the cloak to turn and curl into d’Artagnans.

What was she supposed to say to that? Constance was beautiful, quick witted, courageous and caged in a marriage to a boorish, self-centered, borderline malicious man, with no prospect but to spend her life sewing clothes at his whim and bearing children.

And despite that, she, who had never held a pistol in her life had shot a man tonight to save someone’s life.

“Shall I escort you up? I can stay, if you like.” This time d’Artagnan’s mouth pulled into the smile with much more ease, for Constance’s sake if not for her own.

“I’ll be good. I have walked those stairs often enough. And you want to free Athos with them. You should. You saved his life after all.”

D’Artagnan, her eyes locked on Constance’s bright ones, lifted the cold hand still tangled with her own and pressed a soft kissed to the silky skin.

“I will come by tomorrow.” She raised her eyes to the already brightening sky and sighed. “Later, I mean.”

“You do that.” The caustic wit crept back into Constance’s voice, faint, but already oh so familiar. “And in one piece, if you please. Now go, before they execute Athos yet, because you dawdled. Shoo!”

D’Artagnan breathed another kiss on the back of her hand and seamlessly bent into a bow.

Constance’s snort echoed loudly through the deserted street and then she turned, vanishing into her house, steady once again, as put together and strong as she ever was.


	4. Le pont d'Avignon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this chapter sitting in my Docs for a few days now, pondering if I should really do this.  
> Am I going to be accused of self-indulgence?  
> Would it put people off?  
> And then I thought, what the heck.  
> I´m writing fanfiction. Anything I write is self-indulgence.  
> Grab the idea, flesh it out and then run with it and pray that others fall into step with you. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Things d’Artagnan never had expected to do: Wait outside the Louvre for Musketeers, who incidentally were her comrades in arms, to show up.

Things that were really not that great: Waiting outside a side entrance to the royal palace for two Musketeers who were inexplicably late, while being eyed suspiciously by Guards who seemed to know exactly what an imposter she was.

Buttercup rested his heavy head on her shoulder with blessed ignorance, happily chewing on the second half of an apple, the other half of which had been d’Artagnan’s breakfast, dispensing generous amounts of drool on his owners doublet.

D’Artagnan couldn’t care less. It was blood soaked anyways, sweat soaked, mud caked and the horse spit couldn’t possibly make it any worse.

D’Artagnan was tired and cold. She hadn’t had a decent meal for more than a day. Neither had she slept. The left side of her chest erupted in pain with every inhale. The soft clicking of her broken ribs whenever she moved was highly unnerving.

After half an hour in the cold, her muscles slowly locking up and aggravating the ribs, she was miserable beyond description.

 

The darkest night had given way to the first wisps of dawn as she had arrived at the gate.

In the city people were waking, bakers prepared for the day, soon the cocks would start crowing everybody else out of bed.

Athos was meant to be executed at first light. They still had to ride out to the Bastille.

So please, what was taking them so long?

Waking the king, having him sign the exoneration… it couldn’t be that difficult now, could it?

On the heels of that thought followed a second, much more malicious one.

What if they had already gone and done it and left her behind, effectively getting rid of an unwanted addition.

Self-doubt was not something d’Artagnan was familiar with.

In Lupiac she had been the daughter of one of the, if not the, most respected man in the community and several villages around. Her father had been the one they called upon when they had problems to be dealt with, judgement to be dispensed and disputes to settle. He had been the one they'd send to Auch if the need arose.

He was the one they had sent out to petition the king on behalf of all of them.

The name d’Artagnan had had weight.

And she had, albeit eyed with caution, been respected among her peers for her horsemanship and her fighting powers.

Though she had been the prolonged arm of her father’s will often enough in the last years to have some of the respect of the elders extended to her, had earned enough of it, too.

Here though, her accent made her the butt of jokes, unrefined and basic. She was nobody.

Not even vanishing among the crowds of Paris, she was just that one step below the city dwellers that made them sneer at her, just like the guards did a few meters away.

The lack of a beard on her face had her appear painfully young, the lack of experience and her temper, God knew He had given her one, only added to that.

So, in the waking hours of a new day, she asked herself in all seriousness if the men she had come to respect so deeply in the last day had abandoned her right outside the palace gates for the royal guards to witness.

Yes, maybe they had, but it was unlikely, she decided. Porthos and Aramis between them didn't have one mean bone in their bodies. What's more, they weren't cowards.

They had asked her here. Whatever had happened to delay them must have been serious enough to warrant the waiting time.

Great. Now she worried.

 

It was another quarter hour before they appeared. Buttercup had taken to chewing lazily on a strip of leather that dangled from d’Artagnan’s hand in the meantime.

Aramis and Porthos and a third man, whose strong and distinguished figure she had seen earlier at Athos arrest.

His leather clad form, the weaponry and the easy acquiescence Athos had displayed all spoke as much of his status as commanding officer in the regiment, as his regal stature and the relaxed demeanor in surroundings like this spoke of nobility.

D’Artagnan wrestled his chew toy from Buttercup’s teeth and mounted by the time the Musketeers had crossed over to her.

None of them looked very happy, Aramis even outright impatient.

“There you are.” He greeted her nonetheless, his tone dispersing the worries about their opinion on her. He sounded glad. “I apologize, my friend. This took a bit longer than anticipated.”

“An hour maximum left, we should hurry.” She glanced between Aramis, Porthos and their commanding officer, whose expression alternated between worry and annoyance. "What happened?"

It was the Captain who answered.

“The king requested the cardinal be called to answer to the evidence you uncovered. His eminence was not…” His mouth shut with an audible click and whatever he wanted to say about his eminence and the king remained unsaid.

Their eyes met and the man’s bright blue lingered with a thoughtful expression on d’Artagnan’s face. She hadn’t truly noticed him at Athos’ arrest, too riled up and too angry at the stolen opportunity and herself. He had greyish blond hair with a high forehead, to say it politely, and stunningly bright blue eyes in a handsome face that was weighed down by some deep lines. He seemed familiar, her mind seemingly set on instant trust. Which made her absolutely distrust him.

Something about him naggled at the back of her mind.

For a second there almost was a sense of recognition. Then it slipped and the moment dispersed when Aramis spoke again.

“Captain Treville, d’Artagnan from…I forgot.”

She sighed with a put upon expression. “Lupiac in Gascony.” Aramis knew exactly where she was from.

“Right.” Aramis gave her a reassuring smile, though why she would need one was beyond her. “He helped us get to Goudet and was the one who put him down. Without him we would never have found Cornet or the evidence”

Captain Treville of the Musketeers surveyed her with clever eyes and she had to resist the urge to adjust her seat in the saddle to put on a better display and not slouch.

“My condolences for your loss, young d’Artagnan. And my gratitude for the assistance” He inclined his head, just enough of a Gascon accent bleeding into his words to make it an honest gesture and not just an appropriate social custom.

Her heart stuttered at the reminder that their victory wasn't just a victory but had begun with unimaginable loss. Truth be told, their victory wasn't a victory at all, yet.

“Thank you, sir. I think my father will rest easier, once we avert Athos’ execution.” She was trying to be polite about it.

Here they dawdled and while it was unlikely that anybody would delay them on their way, there was no reason whatsoever to even risk it.

Porthos in the background coughed.

Treville’s mouth twitched and he cast a pointed look at his men.

“I will see all of you at the garrison later.” His nod included d’Artagnan and had her heart leap in her chest. “You don't want to cut it too close. I'm sure Athos won't appreciate it.”

The bid their farewells and turned the horses in direction of the city, slowly cantering through the deserted streets of Paris.

Half an hour to spare.

Enough.

 

***

 

When a ragged boy ran up to them, ten minutes out of the Bastille, and almost threw himself at Porthos, she felt her stomach sink.

Something had had to go wrong. Of course it did. Even after Aramis had related the tale how Treville had convinced the king to first free Athos and then interview the Cardinal about his men’s misconduct- which it had obviously been because it could never have been the Cardinal himself who instigated this - she had not truly believed that the most powerful man in France would just roll over and die. Not if he truly wanted to see Athos dead.

The child clung to Porthos foot and garbled a string of words that d’Artagnan understood perhaps half of, enough to glean that they had pushed up the execution and were doing it now. She didn’t need to hear more. She just drove Buttercup onward, in the direction the child had emerged from.

Aramis horse was right behind her, the slightly irregular hoofbeat easy to discern. The animal swiveled its right front leg while galloping and it gave the rhythm a jumping pattern as unique as its rider’s voice.

Aramis’s feet barely touched the ground in front of the prison before he turned towards the the guards in a dead run, waving the scroll in his hand.

Porthos behind him yelled at the men to open the damn gate.

D’Artagnan contented herself with being the silent backup, armed and glaring.

One of the men seemed to at least want to object, three men reaching for their swords had him reconsider quickly though and they were through.

The prison was a maze. D’Artagnan followed the Musketeers around countless corners and ran in their wake, glad someone knew where they were going and praying at the same time that God would not desert them now of all times.

She didn't recognize the garbled, angry, desperate yell that filtered through the last passageway, behind which daylight illuminated the oppressive darkness of the stone walls. The significance was only marked by Porthos faltering in his step for the fraction of a second before he pushed outside.

When Aramis voice echoed among the walls, strong and sure and commanding, demanding the execution be halted it was d’Artagnan who stumbled. Her hand grasped for the wall and slid off of the moist stone when her knees gave in. Nobody was near to see it or hear her choke with relief between gulping breaths and winces of pain.

They weren't too late.

They had made it. Richelieu be damned, they had made it.

 

 

The pale morning light barely filtered into the courtyard, only pale shadows of the day to come.

The three of them stood together, Aramis and Porthos flanking their third, while the executioner unhooked him from the wall he had been chained to. They crowded him, joking, smiling, relief obvious in their every gesture. But they also shielded him, propping the weary man up with their presence.

D’Artagnan had only ever seen them together when she had gone to kill Athos and while the man had been an everpresent shadow between them for the last day, the impact of their friendship and the sheer impact of the man’s persona alone, was something else.

There was a gentleness under the teasing that Porthos and Aramis displayed for all the world to see, and care under the joking barbs they traded.  She expected to be jealous of their closeness, instead she felt privy to something precious.

As Athos turned in the direction of the stairway she had propped herself up against to catch her breath and give them some privacy, his presence, as disheveled as he was, knocked the breath right out of her.

He was neither as pretty as Aramis, nor as handsome as Porthos with his caramel skin and heavy, strong build.

Actually, he was not that handsome at all at first glance.

His eyes too heavy, the balance of his face distorted by the scar on his upper lip. He looked severe in a pale, bloodless way. His hair, in serious need of a wash, flopped down over his forehead, putting another notch of heaviness to his features.

But as he stopped in front of her, his bright blue eyes trained on her face, searching for something she knew not what, and as his lips pulled into the faintest of smiles when he found it and his eyes sparked, as his charisma swamped her, it was all she could do not to stagger under the weight of it.

Damn, but he was beautiful.

And dangerous.

The way he moved, even without weapons, it reminded her of a wolf on the prowl she had once come across in the woods, bent low over the body of a young red deer. The animal had looked up and regarded her with its yellow eyes before retreating slowly at the same time she had in the opposite direction, all sleek muscle and danger.

She wanted to learn to move like this.

He still wore the prisoner’s chains around his wrists and already all she wanted to do was to nag the man into teaching her to fight.

Aramis filtered past, answering the grin that had appeared on her face without any conscious effort on her part. Porthos stopped one step down, a heavy hand on her shoulder pushing her in front of him, taking up the rear. As if she was a part of their unit.

The sun would not peak over these walls for several hours, if it ever did, but she saw the heavens. For now that must suffice.

Thank you. It was mouthed into what promised to be a clear and bright day, whether to the father himself, or her father, who she had to believe had watched over them as they had set this wrong right, it didn’t really matter.

At least this was right once more.

If Porthos noticed the hitch in her breathing or if Aramis, as he glanced over his shoulder, saw the bright sheen of tears in her eyes, they didn't comment. They didn't need to. Porthos hand landed warm and heavy on her shoulder, ostensibly to steer her clear of the cells and the guards as they followed Athos, but she recognized the beautiful lie there and was deeply grateful.

 

***

 

The ride to the garrison was undertaken in silence. It wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable, but maybe they all needed some time to reflect on almost dying, what they had lost or almost lost.

They handed their horses off to the stable boy, after a good amount of bribery for Buttercup on her part and…

That was it.

They were here.

Her father avenged. Athos safe and, albeit not at his best, alive.

She was at a loss.

Though they had invited her here, she was out of her depths how far that welcome extended. For once she didn’t know what to do. Neither did she have a fallback plan of spontaneous action, she could take.

Leaving seemed like an option. The least embarrassing one, at least.

Staying, extending the time she had, another. Though that contained the possibility of them laughing at her and that was something her pride would not take likely.

“You lost something, boy?” It was Athos, his voice dripping with some hidden amusement, she was sure was at her cost. The way Aramis and Porthos smirked did nothing to dissuade that assumption.

“Nah, here I was trying to be polite and… never mind.” She dropped next to him on the bench, eyes fixed on Aramis across her. “So, here we are.”

“Here we are” he said with a smile. Behind them Porthos yelled for someone named Serge.

“So, d’Artagnan, have you ever considered becoming a soldier?” Aramis leaned back, arms outstretched taking in everything around them.

“I might…?”

“It´s not the worst life to be had.” He continued. “Excitement. It surely impresses the ladies. You see new places all the time. You meet the most interesting people. You have your upkeep, once you secure a commission in one of the regiments.”

D’Artagnans heart stuttered two beats, then sped on with twice the pace. Aramis was trying to recruit her into the Musketeers.

As her eyes found Athos’ next to her he was looking back with mild curiosity on his expressive face, not unfriendly though, and surely not averse to whatever Aramis was suggesting.

“And when you train with the Musketeers you can practically go everywhere. Should it not work out with us.” He smiled his beatific smile and raised his cup to her just as Porthos came back and dropped back down in the bench next to Aramis.

“We doin’ this now?” His dark eyes looked her up and down, then he nodded with a non-descript basso rumble deep in his chest, before his face broke out into a huge grin mirroring Aramis.

D’Artagnan could have sworn they had not been out of earshot since they left the Bastille, still they seemed all on the same page, even Athos.

 

She wanted to say yes. God knew, she wanted to.

She would have, right there, had she not been wearing an undergarment that concealed the fact she was not a man.

This was not a half assed attempt to seek justice, over in a few days. Even she conceded, that this needed preparation.

Aramis watched her, his smile unrestrained. Porthos looked as if he already deliberated ways to to test and train her. Athos hooded eyes watched her with a kind of knowing assessment that she didn´t find all that reassuring.

But saying no?

“I want to.” She needed an excuse to delay  “I swear, I do!”

She needed time. She needed to deal with the farm. With Luc and Louise. She needed a safe place. And her ribs needed to heal out of meddling distance of these three.

“But…?” Athos cut in, eyebrow raised, head lowered, doubt written all over his face.

“I need to bury my father first. Bring his effects in order.” That had the three of them nodding. Athos opened his mouth again, but Aramis beat him to it.

“There is really no argument against this, is there?” Porthos and Athos both shook their heads.

“But ye´ll come back, will ye?” Porthos rumbled at her and then stuck out his hand for good measure.

She reach out and grabbed it.

“I dare anybody to try and keep me away!”

***

 

“D’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony.” Now she had time to truly look at the man behind the desk, he seemed older, more weary. His hair was as grey as her father’s had been, his eyes seemed to almost glow in the dim light.

“My men had an impressive tale to spin about your quest to save Athos.” He trailed off, giving her an opening to speak, but what was she supposed to say? I hope that was all they talked about while they were in here and I sat down there, being stared at by foreign people and pestered by Serge to eat more? Though his Porridge his warm oats with syrup and apples is a thing of beauty.

“Thank you, sir.”

Captain Treville leaned back, hands loosely folded on the table, taking her in and in the gesture itself, the feeling of familiarity from earlier reignited.

It was the nagging feeling she should have known him. Like a cat scratching at the door, begging to be let in, but she couldn´t find the door handle.

Finally his expression gave way to something like disappointment.

He sat up with a sigh and shook his head, pointing to a  chair a little to the side of the desk.

“I have wondered since earlier how I should go about this and I am none the wiser, yet.”

He got up, walked to the window and stared up at the blue sky outside, leaving her to scramble to whatever that meant.

“Sir?”

“I have made enough mistakes in my life. God knows I did, but barely any have I regretted as I have …” His voiced trailed off and she was left to stare at his back. Broad shouldered, a soldier´s body, though his shoulders were hunched down now, curled inward in a way that seemed so wrong in her eyes. Though why, she still had no idea, but this damn familiarity that scratched at the back of her mind.

“At court, during Athos hearing yesterday, a man recounted what happened at the inn.” His voice was low and reminiscent, but he turned and returned to the table to lean against the wood, eyes on her.

“I did not recognize you when we came for Athos. I didn’t expect you to be here, for one, and I was distracted.” His hands, grasping for something to do, landed on the edges of the table and the soft thud alone had her jump. He knew her. He knew.

She was in big trouble.

“Sir?” diplomacy was called for.

“So, when that man said the name Alexandre D’Artagnan… It was either ride out right that second to find you or murder someone. Or both.”

“Sir!”

Treville stopped and turned to look at her.

“I´m sorry and before you go on, I want to apologize and say, I only did what was necessary to…” He raised a hand, commanding her to halt as he walked past her and she did. Enraging him would achieve exactly nothing.

“Let me finish.” He didn´t say please and it surely sounded like an order, so she nodded and shifted slowly, finding a position to stand in for a while that did not hurt.

“So, as I was saying, that was before I remembered who exactly had forced my best man into a duel earlier in broad daylight right within the garrison.”

He stopped, turned back to her and his blue eyes seemed to want to sear into her brain and from somewhere deep down a feeling of guilt bubbled up, fitting and right as if her mind accepted the his right to lecture her.

“Then I just wanted to WHOOP YOUR ASS!” She flinched as he crossed the room and his face was suddenly inches from her own

“WHAT, IN HEAVEN’S NAME, WHERE YOU THINKING, CHARL...?!”

Treville broke off, teeth grinding audibly, leaving her to scramble in the wake of his outburst. But he hadn’t spoken her name. Which boded well if he didn’t want the men outside to hear it.

She in turn knew that lion’s roar.

Once, she had turned a sword around that someone had propped against a chair and inspected the tip. She had been little still and only had wanted to know how sharp it was. That voice had been the answer.

It had been the last time ever that she taken a sword not hers outside of a fight.

Charlotte had just assumed that voice had been her father’s.

Now, he man in front of her, still so close to her face, shook his head and, taking in her standing at attention, stepped away.

“You´re worse than your mother and I´m not saying this lightly.”

 

That was the moment it clicked, the last piece of the puzzle eluding her, buried under fourteen years of memory that did not contain him.

Since the death of her mother.

She remembered pain in the aftermath, tears and failing words, but first of all she remembered her father yelling and someone yelling back.

It was all drenched in guilt when they argued about her, she had hid under her bed,  softly humming the song she always used to count her steps in sword practice, while her family broke apart over her mother’s death and the question whether Charlotte should be allowed to keep up sword practice when it obviously had killed Annette.

It was the first thing that came to her mind now, because it had never left.

_Sur le pont D’Avignon, l'on y danse, l'on y danse._

_Sur le pont d’Avignon, l'on y danse tous en rond._

Sometimes at night, when she couldn’t sleep, she would hum it, envision a routine with her sword in her mind.

Step - step - thrust- swipe - parry - parry- riposte - step et encore until she fell asleep.

She hummed it right then and there, pouring the stress into the familiar notes and watched his face twist into a mask of relief.

 

The second thing that comes to her mind, so closely connected to the pain, is the question that had haunted her for years, though the answer, once she had understood has been the same ever since.

“She would have died just the same had she been a man, only they wouldn’t have raped her first.” His eyes found hers, lips pulled into a humorless smile. “It was on them, not her. Not on Papà.”

“I know.” Jean de Treville turned his eyes to the ceiling only to close them tightly a second later. “I blamed it on him when I was mad with pain and I accused him of chaining your when he wanted to stop teaching you to fight. And then I turned my back andwalked away like I had no obligation to care. It’s sadly something I was wont to do back then”

“He said that, too, when you yelled at each other, didn’t he?” The memories were hazy, but knowing there should be something, it was easier to pick out the relevant bits, turn the person her mind had mashed together into two distinct entities again.

“And he was right about it, but that is a tale for another time.”

Charlotte rubbed both hands across her face and stood. Walked around the desk, only to stop in front of him.

“Uncle Jean.”

“Petite Bouton.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Leading the king’s Musketeers.” Maybe it was the changing light of the still rising sun, but it seemed the deep lines in his face had eased. Maybe it was just the faint and fond smile on it

“What you are doing here, I already know. Borrowing trouble and wrapping my best men around your fingers. Who by the way still believe you are a farmer’s son from Gascony and that I should take you on as a novice.”

That doused her hopeful mood like a bucket of ice cold water.

Jean de Treville might be her mother’s brother and a fixture of her childhood, but he also knew her as her.

 

Charlotte took a step back, then a second. “And you want to send me home and tell me to take care of my farm, marry and have a bunch of children and lead a peaceful life?”

An hour ago she had been hopeful, seeing a path she wanted to follow.

And now a giant insurmountable obstacle stood in the way and eyeing her, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning against his heavy desk, judging where he had no right to.

She had only done what she needed to. Since nobody else had even cared her father had been murdered she had had to make sure he received justice.

And Athos lived. And not once had the fact that she needed to sit to piss even factored into the whole thing.

And uncle or not, he had no right to devalue anything that had happened the last day because she was his niece and not his nephew.

D’Artagnan stood straighter, arms crossed, and stared at him.

He could throw her out if he wanted, but she’d fight him tooth and nails.

For some odd reason that made him chuckle and a crooked grin appear on his face. Followed by a sad, wistful expression

 

“Fourteen years ago you mother was murdered by gang of highwaymen.” He started slow, eyes trained on her face as if she was the only thing in the world.

What she was, was annoyed. “I know. I remember.”

“I was in Troisville at the time, recovering from an injury.”

A faint memory of a woman’s voice surfaced, hazy with too much time gone by. It chided her gently to be careful with a man who only laughed at her concern, reminding a wild little girl that she was no mountain goat and her uncle was hurt.

“We caught those that she had not killed and...dealt with them...but our grief broke something between us.

You father had been my best friend...” He made a face and pushed away from the table.

“God… he had saved my life years back. Which was the reason I dragged him home and he met Annette in the first place. He was like a brother to me. And between all of us, De Foix, Belgard and the two of us, we were closest.

We called each other hrair... brother,” Charlotte's gazed turned towards the window, beyond which, down in the courtyard, three men sat and ate what she had left of the food Serge had put in front of her, then back at their Captain and he nodded.

“I give them way too much leeway, I know. But they remind me of us, back then. And I…”

With a sigh he turned again and picked up the letter he had discarded before.

“I accused him of failing to protect her. He blamed me for her death because I had taught her to fight, although no power in the world could have prevented that.

I accused him of cowardice because he wanted to stop teaching you. Though there was no power in the world, probably, that could have prevented this.” He gestured her up and down, fondness in his voice, warmth that wrapped around her heart.

“And he said I only wanted to turn you into a copy of your mother. And so on.

We were both mad with grief and the one person we should have cared for, we forgot. That was you.”

“I remember. I remember the yelling and … I was beyond help anyways for a while, so...” She gestured him to understand, producing another miniscule smile on his face. “But we came around eventually.”

“But by then, I had already left.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his finger kept turning the letter in slow, unrelenting circles.

“I went back to Paris and drank myself stupid for a while, mourning my sister and my brother, calling myself a bloody idiot because I had managed to fail my niece on top of that.” His gaze lifted from his hand to her and came to rest on her sword with a self-deprecating smile. She raised her hand and closed it over the guard with, maybe undeserved, suspicion, but she was not taking chances with her weapon.  

Treville raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not going to take it from you. I just thought… he continued to teach you, didn´t he?”

Charlotte looked down her body, then at the man across the room and raised both eyebrows in a disbelieving expression.

“Forget I asked.”  For a moment the corner of his mouth twitched up and he seemed oddly pleased.

 

“I threw myself into work, always too busy to initiate that first step. I knew what was happening in Lupiac, of course. The overseer at Troisville knows better than to keep news from me.” His shoulder lifted and dropped.

“Last month I got a letter, saying you were coming to Paris.”

“He wanted to petition the king. Autumn’s been too wet and the winter too long and at some point it will come down to taxes or food… Many will have to hold back.”

Treville looked up and smiled, a soft and almost gentle twist to his mouth.

“That sounds like Alexandre. He wanted to meet and just, talk about it. Make up, if you want to call it that.

I jumped at the chance. I prayed that I’d just get another chance to…” Treville’s voice broke on the last words.

He faltered before her eyes, futilely trying to grapple back control over his grief and failing miserably. His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth set in a severe line as if that could hold the pain at bay.

Charlotte caught his sleeve in her hand and stepped in front of him, right arm raised in an invitation, the left carefully curled over her ribs. She was sure he noticed, but instead of commenting he stepped into her embrace and pulled her against his body, gently avoiding her injuries with the long standing practice of the professional soldier who had seen more than his share of those.

“I´m sorry, Charlotte, I´m sorry.”

She didn´t mean to break down on him, she truly didn´t. And, she was sure, neither meant he.

 

***

 

Jean Armand de Peyrer de Trévilles hid a damn good Armagnac in a secret compartment in his desk.

The Musketeers outside might wonder what they were doing in here for so long. She decided to let them wonder. This was too important to rush it.

Not the part where she wanted to convince her uncle to let her stay as a recruit, but the part where her uncle sat across from her, humming Le Pont d’Avignon and they both sipped a glass of armagnac to level out after they had dredged up all the dirt from the past and hurt together over the death of her father. They had loosened the undershirt to ease her breathing and now both were on their second glass and rather mellow about it.

“Will you let me stay?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, you are in fact the captain of the Musketeers and can refuse.”

“I which case you will return to Lupiac to lead a quiet and unassuming life?”

Charlotte snorted into her glass and looked up at her uncle not even pretending to feign innocence.

He leaned back, hands folded in front of him and studied her. His hand slowly rubbed over the beard at his chin and caused another bright flash of recognition in her.

“That´s the thing, I can´t play favorites. If I let you stay, I will have to put you with someone who can assess you independently and I will have to defer to their judgement.”

She sat straight in her chair, both feet hitting the ground with an audible thud. “You’d do that?”

“Am I happy about it? No.” His fingers twisted the glass on his desk in a slow motion. “Have I known you mother? I still have scars from riling her up.” His lips twitched. “Let´s face it, you managed to keep up with Athos in a swordfight, you kept up with Aramis and Porthos and helped them thwart a plot by Richelieu.  And then you bested the culprit in a sword fight. All that with broken ribs and while hiding your gender. It´s hard to not be impressed.”

She raised her glass and saluted him across his desk, feeling for once since her father died and for however long that would last, at peace.

“Can you treat me like a man?”

“Can you keep up your charade?”

“I will do my best. I told them I needed to bury Papà first, so… I can let the ribs heal without…” She pulled on the under-under shirt in demonstration and Treville nodded thoughtfully.

“Will you let me come with you? I may not have been able to save him, but…”

“Yes.” She cut him off. “Of course.”

There it was again, this emptiness and the daunting task before her.

“It will be good to not be alone.”

 

***

 

Constance liked fruit tartes. Thank God.

D’Artagnan had not been sure as to what to bring her.

Flowers were too suspicious and also a man’s gift and rather romantic and all in all not fitting for a married woman.

Apples were too simple, too much of a country boys treat.

Anything else was far too expensive for someone d’Artagnan had only known a day. She had settled on sweets.

Everybody loved sweets. D’Artagnan loved sweets.

Now they sat together at the kitchen table fingers sticky with honey, tea mugs half empty. In all honesty, d’Artagnan hadn´t actually been able to afford the little cakes either, but that had been a question of necessity.

As she took in Constances haggard appearance, the obvious sign of a bad nights sleep, she was glad, she had bought them. Constance deserved something good.

“So, you will come back and actually try to become a Musketeer? Really?”

“Hrmhm.” D’Artagnan couldn´t help the smile. “And will make it, too.”

“How humble.” The acerbic comment made her laugh.

Constance had insisted on checking on her ribs and wrapping the huge bruise into a curd package to draw it out. The coolness alone did a whole world of good. Then she had insisted on taking off the restricting undershirt and d’Artagnan had taken the first free breath in days.

Her ribs had protested. Her lungs celebrated. She had asked herself, not for the first time, if Constance truly wasn´t an angel.

“I´m good at fighting and not stupid. I’m probably a better fighter than farmer.”

“Or housewife….” Constance cut in and d’Artagnan shuddered, their eyes meeting over the plate with the tarts and both grinned.

“You know…. we do have a vacant room and we always need the money.” Constance pursed her lips, looking d’Artagnan over. “And not having a strange man living in my house would be nice for a change. You can pay, can´t you”

D’Artagnan laughed. “Yes. Yes, I can pay and I’d be glad to lodge here instead of at the garrison.”

“I´d be safer, too.”

“And we could be… I mean…” I’d be safer for d’Artagnan. And Constance wouldn’t be alone all the time anymore with her husband gone, being tasked to care for the whole house, sewing her time away. It was all wholly unselfish reasons and none of them had to do with the way the sun filtering through the window set the deep burgundy tones in Constance’s hair ablaze. Or her blue eyes sparked. “You´d have a friend here, you know? And I actually know my way around housework.” D’Artagnan willed her to just say yes. “I can mend my own clothes and wash them, too. I can cook.”

“Seriously…?”

“Yes! What? Yes, of course! Constance!” The woman across the table laughed. That magnificent person with her sparkling crystal eyes and her strength, who probably just had had the worst night of her life, laughed. For once d’Artagnan was too busy marveling to feel the sting of wounded pride.

It was just a small indulgence that she reached over and, smiling, took Constance’s hand.

 

***

 

Constance didn’t complain when she had to deflect Aramis a short time later, keeping him and the boys busy by glucking all over Athos and his hardship while d’Artagnan dressed.

She didn’t complain either when d’Artagnan stumbled back in the deep of the night after having dropped Athos off at his appartment, something that, according to Porthos, was sadly more normal than any of them wished for.

She did, though, kick her out of bed the next morning, unconcerned by d’Artagnan’s hungover state. After all, as she pointed out, she too had picked Athos out of the gutter and brought him to bed and had been awake and working the next day.

D’Artagnan hated her maybe a little.

Until Constance handed her lunch wrapped in oiled cloth for the road.

Because she was an angel.

“Go,” Constance said. “Be careful. Mind your ribs. And no fighting!”

 

***

 

Treville waited for her at an inn on the road to Chartres, dusty leather doublet, even dustier hat he looked more like a down on his luck sellsword. Which was only fitting as he almost doubled over laughing as he saw her.

“Remind me,” she cut him off as he helped her off Buttercup, a steadying hand to her back. “To never ever do that again, mon dieu.”

“What did you do, try and outdrink Athos?”

“Porthos.” She groaned.

“Porthos doesn’t drink that much.”

“No, but he goads you on and then fleeces you at cards.”

Treville stumbled into a wall next to her with a wheezing sound, doubling over for real this time.

It was only the splitting headache that kep her from being truly offended at the fact that he was laughing so hard, he wasn’t even making a sound.

 

***

 

They didn’t notice the person watching them from a second floor window. They didn´t hear the soft scraping sound as a dagger’s blade slowly scraped along the wooden window sill.

They didn’t see the thoughtful smile that followed them down the road to the south.

She reached for paper and quill and scribbled a quick note to the same man who had alerted her to her mark leaving the city.

This was all very interesting and whatever prompted the good Captain to spend his days away from the garrison with the young Gascon; it could be of vital importance down the line.

The Cardinal had wondered what could have brought the man to forward a dead Gascon’s petition to the king, using up the advantage he had gained by exposing Goudet’s treachery, to gain a tax reduction for a backwater district in Gascony.

After all, the man’s conduct reflected back on his regiment and, so close to him, the king of course.

  
***

~ End of part one ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is room for the spelling correction, gramma correction and general complaints in the comments.  
> And praise. There is always room for praise.


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